


Cordiform

by CrownandAntler



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Blood, F/M, Fluff, Healing, Mentions of Violence, Protection, Reader is a Trickster, usual Henry angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownandAntler/pseuds/CrownandAntler
Summary: Henry and you share a special moment in the healer's tent.





	Cordiform

One second. All you did was turn your back for one second to pick the lock on a chest, and the next thing you knew Henry was on his knees in a futile attempt to dodge a myrmidon's slash. Luckily for the both of you, you have speed to rival that of Lon'qu, and this provided your ability to leap in before the second swing could be made and eliminated the sword-wielder with a swift bolt of your Leven sword. But by that point Henry's blood was already rolling down his clothes and staining them crimson. The treasure chest was forgotten after that, and you spent the rest of the battle taking the lead in skirmishes against your paired unit. (Henry pouted, but apparently had no problem demolishing the enemy as your support.) When all was said and done, you hurried Henry back to camp for medical treatment....

 

The pained and inconvenienced groans of Chrom's army filling the medical tent are hardly enough to warrant a blink, but the moment Henry lets out a hiss at the feeling your careful hands gave the gash on the back of his shoulder you snap out of the memory and flinch back in worry.

 

“Sorry, sorry. Are you okay, Henry?” Said dark mage shifts in his seat until he can comfortably turn his head to peer at you, eyebrows lifted despite the usual grin still being plastered to his face.

 

“Nyahah, yeah. That just really smarts, you know? I don't like the peroxide.”

 

For all his chatter and crooning about blood and death, he could be a real baby when the state of injury concerned his own body.

 

You don't give him more than a few moments to collect himself before you're back at it, pressing a rag soaked in sterilizing agents into the free-flowing souvenir he's brought back from the battle field. It isn't that bad, really. Henry is a really sturdy guy, and seeing him actually bleed is a rare sight. But all these other soldiers, and the smell of their coppery blood, in the stuffy tent air isn't helping. It burns your teeth, and you can taste the metal all the way back to your tonsils.

 

“Owww,” Henry pouts again, his lithe back coiling in when you press against the deepest recess of the wound.

 

“I know, but I'm almost done,” you mutter under your breath as you give the rag a dip in purified water.

 

“You promise?” The childish pout in his tone makes you snort.

 

“I promise.” Actually, you didn't have to clean the wound before applying your Mend staff. But with Henry's habitude for fooling around with severed risen limbs and other gory tidbits covered in germs, you weren't about to take any chances before sealing the flesh.

 

As you finally set down the pinkened rag and pick up your Mend staff, you balance it's healing glow carefully over the split of meat and tendon. You almost don't hear it over the chime of your healing and the soft wet sounds of his shoulder sewing itself closed, but Henry most definitely lets out a sigh of relief through his nose.

 

“All done,” you say and run your fingers carefully over where the wound previously sat. The magic of your staff worked wonders—it's almost like the wound was never there. Human tissue is far from perfect, however, and there's just the smallest amount of scar tissue woven like spider silk into his pale skin. Henry gives a hip-hip-hooray just for good measure and starts to pull his sweater back on over his head. “You should probably have Cherche patch that up for you,” you point out. “Unless you plan on walking around with that big hole in your back.”

 

Henry responds to your teasing smirk with a grin. He puts his “silly” cloak on, and whoever walked past would see that from behind the two of you looked like a perfect pair, with the coattails of your cloaks hanging over the work bench and twisting in the air that wafted in through the flaps of the medical tent.

 

“Better my back than yours, nyahaha!”

 

“Hnn? What do you mean, Henry?” you asked, the two of you swinging your legs just above the floor.

 

“Wow, you really weren't paying attention, haha! That sword was headed right for you, [Name]! Would'a gone right through you. Squelch!” He turned his head away to stare thoughtfully at the kahki wall of the tent. “I really wanted to kill him for that. But you got to him first.” He looks back at you with a playful pout.

 

Meanwhile, you're left stunned. Despite the fact that you're not the smartest member of the army, you're exceptionally good at dissecting Henry's more ambiguous ramblings. Whether it be from all the time you've spent as a fighting pair, all the times he's gotten lost in a rant about blood and curses and hexes, or the dangling suggestions he's left you to decode whenever he gets lost in sagging nostalgia, you just have a way of knowing when he's hinting at something. Even when he's not actually trying to.

 

“Henry,” you murmur, leaning closer so you can look at his closed eyes that are now tilted menacingly down at the dirt floor. If looks could kill. “Henry, that myrmidon was after me?”

 

You're so aghast with yourself that you don't leave room for him to reply, and capture one of his hands between the two of your own. How could you not have known? Henry has expounded to you his intolerance for pain—he even went so far as to make you kiss and bandage a paper cut once not so long ago. He wouldn't have been so sloppy as to not dodge a sword when he knew you were too busy to shield him. Unless he had been shielding you.

 

Henry seems to surface from whatever morbid fantasy is swimming around in his head, and looks at you with the softer version of his usual smile. “Your hands are ridiculously cold, [Name].” He states. “You're not dying are you? I don't want you to die, you know, so don't even think about it.” There's visible strain in the corners of his eyes, like he's still fighting the dark aura urging for vengeance for whatever death could have befallen you.

 

“Don't worry, Henry,” you assure him. One hand remains with his, your calloused fingers lacing together, while the other threads through his hair in the most reassuring fashion you could manage. “I'm not going to die on you.”

 

“You promise?”

 

Your head falls against his shoulder, and his lands atop your own. “I promise.” You close your eyes and enjoy Henry's mousy, giggly hum of approval.


End file.
